


tonic and gin

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Character Study, M/M, ish....everything i write about giggsy inadvertently ends up a character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 10:11:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13702344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: It isn't anything, he doesn't think.





	tonic and gin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anemoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/gifts).



> word prompt
> 
> SHAZ i wanted to do something for u for chocobox as well but it was LATE and anyway its not v good but i hope u like it a lil <3
> 
> _He says, "Son, can you play me a memory  
>  I'm not really sure how it goes  
> But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete  
> When I wore a younger man's clothes"_

They both retire in the summer, which Ryan finds horribly funny for no reason at all.

"It's not like I _planned_ it or anything," Paul says, making a face. They're sitting across the Salford Quays on a scrawny park bench that looks like it's been there since 1953. The water is silent and unmoving, littered with dead leaves and coke cans that people have unceremoniously thrown in. Old Trafford is monolithic in the way it rises above the quay. Its silhouette is stark against the fading light.

Ryan slings an arm around his shoulder. They're too old for this. "Of course you did," he says. Makes some kind of strangled grunt which Paul assumes is the beginning of a bad impression. " _Oh, no. Winning the league wasn't distracting enough, so now I have to win the league_ and _make sure the gaffer retires._ "

Sometimes it would be nice not to be right about everything. "Shut up," Paul grumbles, although he doesn't worm his way out from under Ryan. "Pure coincidence."

"Lies and slander. You just didn't want all that last-game fanfare."

"You didn't have that either," Paul points out. "Your last testimonial was thirteen bloody years ago. Aren't you due another one?"

 "Nah." Ryan looks away. "I don't play for them anymore. Didn't you get the memo?"

He laughs. Paul hazards a grin, the slow, sly one that comes to his face sometimes, only around the people he knows best. They're all gone now, in that way. Butty's still with the academy and there's always Salford, but all of that is different. No more lads. No more taking to the pitch they'd been taking to for twenty years, except hollow charity matches where the shirts they wore might not even be the right colour.

Ryan's watching him. Paul can feel his gaze without needing to look.

 

*

 

Paul doesn't remember a lot of his playing days. They all seem to blur together – a riot of running and red, of crossbars pinging and the sway of the net, Paul often so far out he doesn't even hear the sound the ball makes as it goes in. There are games that stick in his memory, but they're rarely any of his; he remembers Becks's Wimbledon goal, the time Gary tried to chip Gigi bloody Buffon, the same thing about Ryan that everyone remembers.

He doesn't know what that means, or what to make of it. Gary jokes about it during the documentary – _do you remember you used to play at all_ – and some days he isn't sure. Maybe it was all just a dream. It sounds too good to be true, anyway, Golden Balls on one side, the Welsh Wizard on the other. Who lifts the biggest club trophy in the world before they're twenty-five. Who's played only for the club they grew up supporting, day in day out, twenty years and always.

 

*

 

"What are you going to do now?"

"Go back to yours?"

Paul swipes at Ryan, who ducks and snorts. "You know what I mean, dumbass."

"I dunno. Same as you, I suppose. Punditry and all that."

"I don't like it very much," Paul says. Shrugs. "You know. Talking."

"I can talk for the both of us," Ryan says, generously.

"Ha."

"Anyway, that's not why you don't like it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Ryan nods like he knows what he's talking about, which is usually untrue.

"Why don't I like it?"

"Because it's not the same."  

 

*

 

It's funny that Ryan's last game with United isn't in Old Trafford, after all that. Paul watches it from the stands. It's entirely different from the first one they won in ninety-six – no more twin towers, now flashing advertisements and sponsors' tickets – but Ryan paces the touchline and that's all the familiarity they need, really. When United score Paul's looking at Ryan, jumping from his seat and quickly down. Jesse snatches the winner – Jesse who wasn't born when Ryan made his debut – and then it's all over. Confetti. Wayne pumping the trophy into the air. One more engraving of two familiar words. 

 _Surprised he didn't punch you in the face,_ Paul texts, dryly. _Again._

 _Surprised you’ve never punched me in the face,_ Ryan replies immediately. _Ever._

_Pint?_

_You buying?_

_Yeah, why not._

_All right._

It takes Ryan most of two hours to extricate himself from whatever gross embrace van Gaal must have him in, and even then when they get down to a pub there are people still in red with beers in their hands. Someone spots them and everyone's around Ryan, shaking his hand, slapping him on the back. "Manager next season, mate," someone says, and Ryan grins, and doesn’t say anything.

Paul raises an eyebrow when he finally gets to sit down. “Really?”

Ryan shrugs. Keeps the grin on his face. “Ah – you know. I’m retired now. I can do anything.”

Which doesn’t quite have the same ring to it when he’d said it twenty years ago, brash and unspoilt. Paul feels a bit of him splintering. He reaches out and thumbs over Ryan’s closed fist, once.

 

*

 

Paul stands up, at length. It’s almost completely dark. Ryan fishes around his pocket and glances at his phone, which he’s put on silent. There’re about a million more text messages than Paul’s gotten in his life.

“That’s just ‘cause people don’t dare to text you,” Ryan says, falling into a slow, ambling gait behind Paul walking stiffly to the car. “It’s the vibe you give off. Also the fact that they think anyone who texts you dies in the next five seconds.”

“You started that rumour,” Paul points out without turning around.

“Huh. I didn’t know you knew that.”

“I know everything.”

Ryan won’t stop looking at his phone all the way back. It’s just as well he doesn’t have social media, Paul thinks, turning down a quiet road and leaving the still waters of Salford Quay far behind. Too much of a headache. Gary’d shown him all the stuff that came out when he’d left (the second time, everyone seemed to feel the need to mention). He’d gotten tired reading the first five, and _he_ hadn’t been voted best United player of all time.

“Go on. Read us some.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Don’t think your ego can fit through the door, either way.”

Ryan snorts. “ _Manchester United legend leaving after 29 years at club_ ,” he says, boxing up his voice to sound more RP-accent. It’s not entirely successful. “Cripes, has it been that long? That’s almost as old as Liverpool’s title hopes.”

Paul laughs. Drums his fingers against the steering wheel.

“ _Manchester United legend exits Old Trafford_. You’d think I never actually physically went home or anything.”

“Come to think of it, your sleeping bag is unusually well-used.”

 “ _Ryan Giggs Leaving Manchester United To Become Nottingham Forest Manager_. You can’t make this up.”

“Did you really?”

“Shut up. _Twitter pays tribute_ _–_ oh, this’ll be good. Listen. _He played, developed, made history and scored some truly great goals. Ryan Giggs made it look easy._ Well, it wasn’t bloody easy when you have Gary Neville sending you pictures of swanky pasties for three years.”

“You’ve only got yourself to blame.”

“ _Ryan Giggs. The man has won as many premier leagues as Arsenal football club’s entire history. What a man_. Horrendous fact-checking. It starts from ninety-three, Mister,” Ryan squints at his phone, “‘Touchline Fracas’. Who names themselves these things?”

There's more, and more - Danno comes in with 'all time great and one of very few one club players', which Ryan scoffs at. Bye Giggs with a hand-waving emoji. Wishing Ryan Giggs all the best for the future, what an absolute legend. Hope one day you come back as manager. 963 games, 35 trophies, 29 years, 1 club legend. Go get your experience and come back and do an SAF in a few years. #ThanksForEverything. We'll see him as #MUFC manager when the time is right. The next chapter awaits.

His voice trails off, then. When Paul glances over at him he’s got one hand propped on the door and he’s staring out the window.

 

*

 

Of course it isn't the same.

Of course it isn't – whatever football was. Is. Heart in mouth, blood pounding, ears filled sometimes with song, sometimes with the cursing of your teammates as they shout for the ball. The crisp grass. The kit man. Sitting in the changing room. Standing in the tunnel, looking at the sliver of light from outside that means the exact same thing the last bell of the school day used to: it's time.

 

*

 

Paul unlocks the door and Ryan follows him inside. The moment it clicks shut he feels Ryan's arm around him, draped almost languidly, warm. He turns his face up to meet Ryan's. The kiss is slow and most of it isn't even a kiss. Just breathing. 

He can't remember how long they've done this. It isn't anything, he doesn't think. It must've started the same way any of this starts; someone was sad, they were the only two people around, soft acoustic music was probably playing in the background. Ryan always comes over after a loss, and Paul always opens the door. It seemed almost the natural progression to make.

Sometimes Paul wonders what it might have been had it been Gary instead. But Gary knows who he is, what he means, is so wonderfully sure of it. When anything happens he squares his jaw and the circles under his eyes get a little darker, but he's still on his feet. The rest of them are the ones who have to pick themselves up.

Ryan pulls back slightly, mouth parted like he's going to say something. Paul leans forward and buries his face into Ryan's shoulder.

It isn't anything, he doesn't think.

 

*

 

"Are you staying the weekend?"  

"Don't know. Are you letting me stay the weekend?"

"Why not?" Paul shrugs. He's sat on the edge of the bed and Ryan's in the shower. The hiss of the water is oddly comforting. "Now that you're proper retired and that. You might even have time to wash your fucking dishes."

"I wash my fucking dishes," Ryan yelps, indignantly. Paul curls a hand into the soft cotton of the sheets and starts laughing.

 

*

 

Ryan Giggs isn't at Manchester United.

No one's been able to say that for twenty-nine years.

 

*

 

There's that one slice of – clear sky, or something, Paul doesn't know how to call it. Four games that felt like everything was just right, even if they didn't have to win for it to be. Walking out in a tracksuit and hearing the old chants strike up again. He'd maybe gotten a little too comfortable. Grinned at the crowd, waved. Butty didn't shut up about it for ages.

So they lose, to Sunderland, and it's gut-wrenchingly painful, made all the more worse by the fact that Paul can't take off the tracksuit and start warming up. When you're playing, there's a way to pretend. Tell yourself: I'm going out there, I can fix this, we can still win. When you're on the bench all you can do is look up and pray and not even know what you're praying to.

So they lose, and there's nothing he can do to help. And Ryan drives home and puts his head in his hands and there's nothing Paul can do to help with that, either. Just sits with him. Letting the blood crash through their ears.

Two wins and a draw and a loss. So they lose and here's the thing: that's all they've done, all season. But this is – something. Something different. This is four boys who grew up here suddenly in the front row, on the touchline. This is Ryan and every time he walks out in the suit and stands in front of the fans Paul thinks he sees something, a flash of a ghost in red, bearing down on goal like the wind.

The Stretford End is alive. More alive than Paul's seen the entire season. On their feet, defiant. Seventh place – fuck that. We have Paul Scholes, we have Ryan Giggs. It's like a song that all of them know. Like a song to guide them. We all follow United.

It's the one slice of clear sky. The one moment of Paul knowing that maybe this will never happen again, but it _happened_. Ryan turns and looks at him and Paul can see that he's bursting with something he can't get across. Doesn't need to. There's a banner in the East Stand that says _Manchester Is My Heaven_. Yes, Paul thinks, looking up. That's what it is.

 

*

 

They have chicken pasta for dinner; it's a dish Paul copied off Becks years ago, and it's fast enough that he doesn't get annoyed. Ryan doesn't shut up throughout the meal. "We should go ice-skating," he says through a mouthful of linguine. "We should hang out at Trafford Centre. We should sit in Barrack Park and feed ducks. We should go visit the Corrie Street set. Did you know it's just down the road from Old Trafford? I had no idea – "

Paul listens. He prefers it to talking, which he suspects is why Ryan chose him of all people. He nods at the right moments and rolls his eyes and smiles exactly where he knows Ryan wants him to. It's a strange kind of dance, a we've known each other almost three decades kind of dance, but there isn't anything that rings false about it. He knows what Ryan's trying to do. Make the bandage pretty or else it'll scar. It isn't anything, he doesn't think.

"So?"

Ryan's looking at him. Paul blinks.

"What?"

"I'm staying the weekend, yeah?"

"Oh – " Paul feels dumb. "Yeah. 'Course."

Ryan grins at him. Stands up and grabs Paul's dish, a little more exaggeratedly than he needed to.

"Look. I'll even wash your fucking dishes."

He wanders over to the kitchen. Sticks them under the tap and turns it on, humming to himself absently. It's a Joy Division song.

His phone is lying on the table. Paul picks it up, turns it over. It's been left on the twitter page they'd been scrolling through earlier. There's a line of text that says _if there's a photo which sums up Ryan Giggs, this is it._ There's a photo of two defenders in blue and white stripes, one too far away and watching in horror, the other going in desperate but nowhere near the boy in red. He's got a baggy laced-up kit and a terrible haircut that's going all over the place. His entire body is hunched over the ball, one line of trembling determination, running with the fearlessness of youth. Both his feet are off the ground.

"Well, don't just sit there," Ryan yells from the sink. "If you're going to be the cheapest millionaire in the world and not buy a sodding dishwasher then come help me put them on the rack."

Paul holds Ryan's phone for a second longer. He thinks of the two of them on the pitch, Paul feeding the ball into open space, Ryan flying past him fierce.

He closes the webpage. Puts the phone down. Stands up.

"Right behind you," he says, and means it.

 

   

**Author's Note:**

> \- title from Piano Man by the man whose initials happen to be B. J.  
> On retirements: both of Scholesy's came in the summer, relatively unannounced (he did mention prior to 2013's in an interview with Gaz, but 2011 was straight up PAUL SCHOLES ANNOUNCES RETIREMENT, EVERYONE QUESTIONMARKS); Ryan left United in July without mentioning, either  
> \- [GARY DID TRY TO CHIP GIGI BUFFON](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SBJRiho6lSI), cause he's an idiot  
> \- Ryan's last game with us was [ the 2016 FA Cup Final](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2016_FA_Cup_Final)  
> \- Van Gaal kept [affectionally hitting Giggsy](http://giant.gfycat.com/LazyDisgustingDuckling.gif), idk what to make of it  
> \- Article and twitter headlines are all legit (even the notts forest one): [x](http://www.independent.co.uk/sport/football/premier-league/ryan-giggs-leaves-manchester-united-legend-exits-old-trafford-in-search-of-management-role-a7115606.html) [x](https://www.sportlineng.com/2016/06/19/ryan-giggs-leaving-manchester-united-become-nottingham-forest-manager/) [x](http://www.punditarena.com/football/english-football/sokeefe/twitter-reacts-news-ryan-giggs-leaving-manchester-united/) [x](https://talksport.com/football/manchester-united-fc-news-fans-say-ryan-giggs-leaving-club-best-160701201600) (Danno - Danny Higginbotham)  
> \- Giggsy's record as United manager is 2W1D1L  
> \- the Manchester is my Heaven banner is in the East Stand  
> \- Barrack Park is close to OT, I [checked this](http://www.manchester.gov.uk/info/200073/parks_playgrounds_and_open_spaces)  
> \- Giggsy's chant is based on Love Will Tear us Apart, a Joy Division song  
> \- [the tweet](https://twitter.com/DanielHarris/status/748844375782879232) that made me EMO   
> \- thank u shaz for loving my two idiots with mee i luff u lots <333


End file.
